


Going Under

by cweepa



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-His Last Vow, then hurt again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-20
Updated: 2014-09-20
Packaged: 2018-02-18 03:14:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2333207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cweepa/pseuds/cweepa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Me too. Mycroft was being a real ars…arsehole. " The boy replied, frowning a bit. "Mummy says I shouldn't use that word, but.. he really is one," he added, as though daring John to say something about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Going Under

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my fellow asswipe, Shivaane, for beta-ing this for me at night while I watched August: Osage County and bugged her. 
> 
> I don't own anything and that's probably a good thing.

_Going Under_

 

John Watson had always considered himself rather unlucky.

 

Sure, he had a roof over his head and food in his stomach (most of the time), but that was about it. He did have parents, but when one was a drunk who could barely remember his name, and the other slept with a different guy every other week, it’s not really counted. He had a sister too-Harry- but she never really paid much attention to him,  despite them being twins. Just because she was a few minutes older than him, John thinks bitterly.

  
  
He had friends too, but none of them seemed to fully understand him. They were too busy playing with their fancy gaming stations, and not worrying if their dads were stone-drunk in a police cell somewhere. It makes John wonder how it is like to have a normal life. 

  
When he was eight, his dad died. Alcohol poisoning, they said. Their house had been full of people, all of them hovering around his mum, who was dressed to the nines in a black (probably expensive, too) dress, and dabbing at her heavily made up eyes delicately. She wasn't really sad though. Not when she had three other boyfriends waiting for her at god knows where. He had wandered around the house, trying to ignore the cooing old ladies trying to hug him, as if he needed comforting. He couldn't seem to find Harry. She was probably hiding somewhere, he decided with a flash of annoyance.

  
  
John eventually found himself at the park, 5 minutes from his house. It had been entirely too suffocating in there, full of fake people who didn't know how things were really like. John had sat under a tree for a while, breathing in the fresh, dewy night air and staring at the stars. He wished he could fly amongst them, sometimes.

  
He was so lost in thought, he didn't notice that someone had joined him under the tree. "It's rather late, isn't it?" A soft voice pierced his thoughts. He turned around and was met with a small, serious face, with pale, clear eyes and thick black curls. "Just needed to get away, " John replied. His mum had always told him not to talk to strangers, but this was a boy was around his age, and pretty harmless looking. Dressed rather posh too. Probably lived at one of those large houses uphill, then. "Me too. Mycroft was being a real ars…arsehole. " The boy replied, frowning a bit. "Mummy says I shouldn't use that word, but.. he really is one," he added, as though daring John to say something about it. John laughed. "It's okay, my mum says that to me too. She says a lot worse, though, so it’s quite ir..ironic," he sniggered, and to his delight, the other boy giggled. He patted himself on the back mentally for managing to use a big word without stumbling. For some reason, John wanted to impress this boy.  "I'm Sherlock," he said, offering a small, pale hand. John takes it, and smiles back. "I'm John," he replies. And Sherlock smiles back, a brilliant smile that promises John of a world full of adventures.

  
  
He starts to meet Sherlock more regularly after that. Some days, he would go there after school and Sherlock would be kneeling on the grass and scraping soil into a jar. "For experiments," he tells John. John has since learnt not to question any of Sherlock's odd habits. It's no surprise when he comes across Sherlock waist deep in one of the ponds, clutching a old toad in his hand. Sherlock's face breaks into a huge grin when he sees John, and beckons him over with the toad-less hand. "Look what I found!" And John comes over and looks, smiling as Sherlock tries to coax the toad into eating some sort of odd substance. It doesn't work, though, and Sherlock lets the toad free after some persuasion from John. They sit on the grass afterwards, Sherlock plucking up different strands of grass while John watches. It's that day, where he sees Sherlock sitting under the sun, with his expensive trousers (what kind of parent would let an eight year old out to play in such lavish clothing?) covered in pond weed and his face flushed with excitement, when John decides to tell Sherlock about his family. Sherlock had listened carefully as John told him about his alcoholic dad and absent mum, about his sister, about everything. And when he was done, he had half expected Sherlock to walk away. Not many wanted to be friends with someone so troubled. He didn't expect Sherlock to scoot closer and give John an awkward hug. "It's okay," he had said. "I'll always be here for you." And that was when John had decided, that maybe he was lucky after all.

  
  
The next day, Sherlock had presented John with a ring. It was one of those cheap plastic things from a cereal box, with a shiny green stone in the center. "You can never take it off," Sherlock had said seriously. "If you wear it, we will be friends forever." He had then stuck out his finger so John could see his own ring, which had a deep blue stone. John had heard of these, the girls in his school were always exchanging objects and proclaiming their friendship for each other. He was a guy, though. He wasn't sure if it was appropriate of him. But looking up into Sherlock's excited face, his heart warmed, and he slipped on the ring. "I promise I won't," he replied.

  
John should have known it couldn't have lasted forever, though. When he was fourteen, he went to the park as usual,  only to be met with a sad, serious face. By then, his once scrawny friend had grown into a silent beauty, with the beginnings of prominent cheekbones and artfully messy hair. John knew he was probably slightly attracted to Sherlock--who wouldn't be? It wasn’t that strong though, and in a small town like theirs, not many were willing to accept same sex relationships. It took one look at his friends slightly red eyes to know something was wrong. "Sherlock?" John asked, worried. Sherlock was silent for a moment, staring at the ground. Finally, he raised his head and whispered, "I'm moving."

  
  
John felt like someone had slapped him. "What? W-when?" he croaked hoarsely, already dreading the answer. "This Saturday. Mummy just told me." Sherlock replied. There was a silence, until something snapped and John found himself with an armful of Sherlock. "I'm so sorry, John. I wished I knew sooner," he mumbled. "Where are you moving to?" John tried to ignore the little fluttering in his chest that arose at the scent of soap and damp soil that was so painfully Sherlock. "I don't know. No one will tell me." He replied, loosening his grip. "It's okay," John had replied. "We'll get through this. Friends forever, see?" He raised his hand, showing Sherlock the plastic ring that he had still somehow refused to remove. Sherlock had smiled back, blinking back tears and showing John his own ring. "Forever and ever," he whispered.

  
  
Sherlock never called, though. Days turned to weeks, which turned to months and eventually, a year. John refused to give up. Sherlock said he would call once he got the new number, and Sherlock wouldn't break his promise, John told himself angrily. When it was time for him to pack for college, he forced himself to admit defeat. Sherlock wasn't calling, and he couldn't keep worrying over the fact.

  
  
At college, it was a whole new different world. Suddenly, he was going to parties and hooking up with girls, and everything was changing. He had almost forgot about Sherlock, until he was lying in bed one night with a gorgeous blonde with warm brown eyes and an extremely talented mouth. "What's this?" She had asked, lifting up his hand which still wore the old plastic ring. "Just...just a sentimental thing. No big deal, really." He replied, blushing. "I think it's sweet," she said, and kissed him soundly. He couldn't stop thinking of Sherlock the rest if the night, though. He had still not called John. And John was starting to wonder if he would ever get over Sherlock.

  
  
He had finished college, eventually, and went to train as an army doctor. It was inevitable that he would get deployed to Afghanistan. There, he had met many men, and that was where he first became intimately involved with them. Not because he liked them or anything. But when you're out in a desert for months fighting a war, you tend to not bother who or what you stick your dick into. It had been mutually enjoyable for him and his partners, though. John couldn't help wondering if it would be the same with Sherlock. He kept the ring on, although he knew it would probably get blown off somewhere. But it gave him a sense of safety, of familiarity. And at night, he liked to dream that Sherlock was back in London, waiting for him to complete his service and come home to him.

  
  
It was maybe three years into service when he got shot. He should have seen it coming, of course. But he had been distracted after a week of little to no sleep and hardly any time to eat. One bullet; straight though his shoulder. And as he stumbled onto the ground, he could vaguely hear himself yelling out for Sherlock.

  
He had returned back to London, with a limp and a tremor in his hand. All psychosomatic,  his therapist had said. It hadn't stopped him from needing a cane, though. The only redeeming factor, was, he still had the ring. It had faded to a pale green and was scratched from all the time spent in Afghanistan, but other than that, it was relatively unharmed and still in one piece. He had called back to his house, of course. To ask if Sherlock had called. His mum had answered the phone and said no, he hadn't, but she was getting married again, and oh, wouldn't he come over for tea? John outright refused. He never needed his mum's help. He wouldn't start needing it just because of such an insignificant injury.

  
  
He found himself in a bedsit, living off an Army pension. His sister was lost to alcoholism, and he had no other friends. John spent most of his time thinking of Sherlock, and wondering how his friend was, and would he still have his own ring? After so much suffering, John thought, at least he could lose himself in blissful thoughts. For now, his life was relatively uneventful, and he didn't know if he liked it or not.

  
  
It was maybe a month or so when he ran into Mike Stamford, who had grown plump and seemed to lead a good life. Mike had been eager to introduce him to someone. "He needs a roommate, you need a place to live. He's a splendid guy, albeit a little odd, but nothing you can't handle!" He told John. "Come on!" And John found himself hobbling after the man and wondering if it was really a good idea to room with someone he didn't know.

  
A tall, slender man stood in the centre of the lab, bent over a microscope. Without turning around, he had asked, "Mike, can I borrow your phone?" The voice was oddly familiar.

 

  
What's wrong with the landline?"

  
  
"I prefer to text."

 

  
"Sorry, left it in my coat," Mike said apologetically, feeling around in his pockets. "Here, use mine," John said, offering his phone. The man lifted his head, and immediately, John froze. He knew that face all too well. Granted, it had close to twenty years of age added, but he would recognize those eyes anywhere. Sherlock reached out to take the phone, and John caught a glimpse of blue on his fingers. He still wore the ring, then. "John," Sherlock breathed. "It's really you."  "You know each other, then?" Mike asked. "We go way back," John replied, still staring at Sherlock. Those years had certainly done him well. "I thought I'd never see you again," Sherlock murmured. "You didn't call me," John replied. Mike cleared his throat. "I'd best be going, then," he said, and slipped out the door. There was probably more to it then he thought, and he didn't want to be caught in between the train fire.

  
"I'm sorry," Sherlock said. "I tried, I really did. I was never able to get through, though, and eventually ...things came up and..." He trailed off. John shook his head. "It's okay," he muttered. There was a silence "I see you still wore the ring....did it follow you to Afghanistan? Or was it Iraq?" John nearly dropped the beaker he was holding. "How did you know?" He asked in wonder. Sherlock winked. "Picked up a few things during these few years. While everyone was off wasting their brains and getting laid." John laughed. "You have to tell me about it," he grinned. And when Sherlock started explaining everything with the enthusiasm of his eight year old self, John knew everything was going to be alright.

  
  
It was dangerous, his line of work, Sherlock said. He could get shot again at any moment, or held hostage, of even killed. It didn't deter John, though. Sure, it worried him to no end, from when he got abducted by the Chinese mafia, to when Moriarty strapped a bomb vest onto him. He had so many close calls with death, he seemed to be in constant worry about his life. It was only when he watched Sherlock at the top of the roof, when he realized just how much he worried for Sherlock's too.

  
  
He had watched many men die, good men, bad men, his own comrades and his friends. It didn't prepare him for when Sherlock jumped off the building, though. It didn't prepare him for the sight of Sherlock lying in a pool of his own blood, the light blue of the ring blinking tauntingly up at John.

 

  
He never even got to tell Sherlock that he loved him.

 

After Sherlock jumped, John stopped wearing the ring. He kept it in his bedside drawer, along with a picture of him and Sherlock. _Oh,_ that picture. It was when they had just finished a particularly gruelling case, and as celebration, Sherlock had allowed John to drag him to the pub with Lestrade and the rest of the team. It was supposed to be just one drink, which eventually turned into two, four, six, and then, John lost count. Lestrade had snapped up the picture on his phone. It was a quick moment where Sherlock was holding onto John in an almost tender embrace, with a silly smile on his face that was very unlike the detective. John himself was laughing and trying to get away. It didn’t meaning anything, just one drunk friend helping the other to stand. But John liked to think that it meant more. He couldn't stand looking at the picture anymore, though. It brought back too many memories.  

 

He had asked Mycroft if he had taken Sherlock’s ring. He certainly wasn’t wearing it when he was at the morgue. Mycroft had just look confused, though, so John didn’t bother pushing for it. He had wanted to bury Sherlock with it, though. Sherlock would have liked that.

 

He got over it eventually, though. A few months later, he met a lovely girl. It was the first time since Sherlock that he felt a spark. Mary was beautiful, kind, understanding, funny..and downright amazing. John didn't know how he got so lucky. And finally, for the first time in so many years, he started to forget Sherlock. It was two years later, on the eve of Sherlock’s death, when he decided to marry her. He only remembered that it was the day Sherlock died when he was lying in bed with Mary.

 

For once, John Watson’s life was normal.

 

It came on a cold day in January. It was nearing evening, and Mary was preparing dinner. Their doorbell had rang, and John had gotten up to answer it. And nearly went into shock on his porch. “You going to let me in?” Sherlock asked. He was shivering a little, and John realised that he didn’t have that coat of his, or even a jacket. He was drenched from the rain, and _oh my god, was that blood on his chin?_ Numbly, John opened the door slightly wider for Sherlock to slip through. It was then when John noticed how oddly Sherlock was holding himself, as though he was unable to stand on his left leg. He looked exhausted, too—his once clear eyes were clouded over with weariness. There was a small smile on his face though. “I guess I have some explaining to do, but-“

 

 “Where the _fuck_ have you been?” John asked through clenched teeth. “Oh, just slightly busy,” Sherlock shrugged. “I’m back now, though, so everything’s okay.” John took a deep breath. “Okay?” he hissed. “Okay?! I spent two bloody years mourning your death, and you _let_ me think you were _dead_! And you still have the balls to waltz in here and act as if everything’s okay?” He shouted. “I sort of thought you would be angr-“

 

“What’s going on here?” Mary asked, walking into the hallway. “ I thought I heard-oh my god. But-you’re dead!” She whispered. “Apparently not,” John muttered under his breath. “Ah! Mary! I’ve heard a lot about you, don’t ask how but you seemed like a splendid-“ “Will you shut up for a second?” John yelled. He turned around. “Mary, I’m sorry, but could we have a few minutes? I need to tell Sherlock something.” He didn’t wait for a reply before shutting the screen doors behind her.

 

“Look, John, I’m really sorry but it was vital that you believed I was dead,” Sherlock said the moment the door clicked shut.

 

“Wasn’t twenty years enough for you? Even then, at least you were still alive. You let me believe you were dead for-“

 

“John, please, just listen-“

 

“Who else knew?”

 

“I-“

 

“Who. Else. Knew.”

 

Sherlock took a deep breath. “Just…just some of my homeless network…Molly Hooper…my brother…” he trailed off. John took a deep breath. Breathe in, breathe out. “ And why was it so important that I, of all people, couldn't know?” Sherlock fell silent. “You would have given it away,” he finally said. Without warning, John’s hand flew out and slapped Sherlock straight across the face. “You utter prick. I can’t believe I’ve put up with you all these years,” John hissed. “Just a simple text would have been nice.” Sherlock rubbed his cheek. “I told you, I couldn’t,” he whispered. “John, please, don’t make this so difficult for me.” John’s eyebrows shot up, and Sherlock winced. Bad, bad choice of words. “Difficult? Difficult?! I think I have a right, thank you very much,” he shouted. Sherlock silently raised his hand. “I still have this on, John. I never forgot about you,” he whispered. John’s breath caught at the sight of the cheap, plastic ring. Sherlock removed the ring, and John could see the pale band of uneven tanning that the ring had caused. He held the ring up to John. “You helped me through it all, John. The thought of you, it just makes everything so much easier,” he continued. John stared at the ring. “ I don’t have friends. I only have one,” Sherlock added, stepping closer. “What do you say, John? Ready to take on the world with me again?”

 

John punched him.

 

Sherlock stumbled back, grabbing his nose. “The hell was that for?” he spluttered. John grabbed Sherlock by the collar. “Never come here again,” he growled. “You think you can lure me back with your manipulative speeches? It’s just a ring, Sherlock. It didn't mean anything. Do you see my hand? Do you see me wearing a ring? No, right? Well, that’s because it’s just a bloody ring. A cheap, plastic ring that our eight year old selves played with. It doesn’t mean anything to me. And you know what? You don’t mean anything to me right now. Because what kind of friend lets his so called best friend think he is dead?” John shoved Sherlock backwards, throwing Sherlock’s ring onto the floor. “Get out.” He grinded. Sherlock stood up silently, and picked up the ring. “I’m sorry, John,” he whispered, his voice breaking and for a second, John felt guilt stabbing him in the gut. “You’re completely, utterly, right.” And he left the house.

 

John watched the Sherlock’s slender figure limp out into the darkness, and felt worse than he ever had.

 

“You’re an idiot, that's what you are. A complete idiot,” Mary tells him.

 

John doesn’t respond. He knows that he is.

 

He takes to wearing his own ring again. He hopes that he runs into Sherlock again. He didn’t mean to be so harsh, Sherlock was just trying to protect John.

 

The next time he sees Sherlock, he is trapped inside of a bonfire and everything is melting and _oh god, someone please help him_ , he can’t die like this. Sherlock pulls him out though, and he and Mary try to revive John. The last thing John hears before he blacks out is Sherlock whispering out a broken apology.

 

It is a while after, when John finds out that Mary is an assassin, and that she wasn’t really Mary but someone else, and that the real Mary Morstan is dead. During that period of time, Mary also shoots Sherlock, and John is torn between yelling at her and forgiving her. He goes with the latter, though. He couldn’t bring himself to hurt Mary, despite how much Sherlock meant to him.

 

It is when Sherlock drugs his family and drags John to Appledore, when John finally snaps. His life has been a real bitch ever since Sherlock re-entered, and he decided to tell Sherlock just that. Sherlock is quiet, for a moment, just staring out of the window, and John had said, “You’re a real selfish prick, you know that? Why can’t I just have a normal life, without having to worry about my family being in danger? Why can’t we just be safe?” Sherlock turned around and regard John sadly. “I’m sorry,”. He seemed to be apologising a lot, lately. Definitely more than he had in his entire lifetime before the fall.

 

It is only when Sherlock shoots Magnussen in the head, when John realises how wrong, how fucking stupid he was. He stands in a corner, terrified, as the red tracers float tauntingly over Sherlock's face. “You’re safe now,” he say, a sad smile on his face, and John feels the wind rush past his ears, and his vision prickling with tears. “You utter cock.” He whispers.

 

Sherlock is sent away on a mission as punishment for shooting Magnussen. It’s better than death, he supposed, but it’s highly dangerous, and he just knows that Sherlock won’t be back in “about six months”. He shakes hands with Sherlock, and its awkward, and he realises that Sherlock is still wearing the cheap ring. This time, though, so is John. There is silence, and John wishes he could throw himself at Sherlock and kiss that stupid face with those stupid cheekbones because _goddammit_ who knows when Sherlock will be back? He doesn’t, though, and he finds himself blinking back tears as the plane takes off. Mary holds him tight, and kisses him, but he never feels quite right.

 

It is a mere three months before Mycroft calls John. He asks John to come over, quickly, there is news on Sherlock, and John drops all his work and rushes over to Barts, only to be met with a sobbing Molly and a stony Lestrade. Even Sally and Anderson look subdued, and John instantly knows something is wrong. “What you may see may be hard on you, but please, do not do anything rash,” Mycroft says. “Yes, okay, what’s wrong? Where’s Sherlock?” John asks urgently. Mycroft quietly pulls aside the curtain, and John nearly goes sick at the…mess on the bed. His best friend is almost unrecognisable, white bone sticking out of various wounds and his chest nearly torn apart. There are burn marks marring his pale skin, and one of his eyes stare blankly at the ceiling while the other has been shot out. Long scars snake down his chest, disappearing beneath the white sheet that had been placed around his bony hips for modesty. The only thing that is recognisable is the cheap, faded blue plastic ring that hangs from one of those fingers.

 

It’s the only thing that truly confirms that that body lying on the bed, is indeed, his best friend.

 

 “He was still alive when they did this,” Mycroft said in a low voice. “If it makes you feel better, we have his attackers in custody. You are free to do whatever you want to them,” he continues. John just stares at Mycroft. “I can’t…I need to sit down,” He whispers and the last thing he is aware of is someone catching him as he falls.

 

It’s real this time, Sherlock is really dead and technically it is all John’s fault. If he hadn’t complained about how he wanted a normal life, if he hadn’t been such a total bitch about it…Lestrade tells him that he isn't to blame, and that Sherlock would have done it anyway because he is _John_ and Sherlock cares about him more than is healthy.

 

John retreats home for a week. Mary is understanding, the perfect wife. She doesn't push him to work, to shower, to even leave their bed, but she does listen to him and bake warm, jam filled sponge cakes. John knows he should feel horrible whenever he snaps at her to leave him alone, but he can't bring himself to feel anything anymore. On the eighth day, Mycroft Holmes pays him a visit.

 

He hands John an old, charred blue plastic ring and a heavy, cream coloured envelope. "They found it in his coat. It's addressed to you," he says, and John takes it shakily. He can vaguely make out a few  dark stains of dried blood on the corner. "Thank you," he whispers, and Mycroft nods impassively, turning around to leave.

 

The handwriting is shaky and uneven, and words crossed out over and over again. It's nowhere near Sherlock's usually elegant script. John imagines Sherlock sitting in a hotel room, scrawling on the paper with shaky hands. For the next few days, John leaves the letter on the dressing table, not quite wanting to open it.

 

He wants to preserve that last bit of Sherlock for as long as possible.

 

He gives in by the fifth day, and peels the envelope open gently. It's silly to think that it smells of Sherlock, really, it's just a piece of paper. John brings it up to his nose and inhales, anyway.

 

It's short--very, very short, but it speaks volumes. It's everything John wants to hear, and more.   

 

John gets through it, of course he does, he always does, but it isn’t easy. Sometimes, he thinks he can hear Sherlock screaming his name, and he is plagued with nightmares of Sherlock apologising while he burns, or him jumping off Barts into an inferno. He soldiers on, though, and although he is never really quite the same, he still emerges relatively whole.

 

It is nearly four years when he finally visits his mum and Harry. During the duration of the trip, he finds himself at the park where he and Sherlock first met. He stands by one of the huge lakes, fingering the dog eared photograph of him and Sherlock, and the two rings. The park brings back memories of their eight year old selves, and it feels odd, saying goodbye to Sherlock at the very spot that they met.  “It’s rather late, isn’t it?” he murmurs, smiling faintly.  He puts the ring and photograph into a bottle, along with a letter that he wrote. Sherlock would never get to read it, but it doesn't matter anyway. John seals the bottle, and with a deep breath, throws the rings, photograph and letter into the greenish-blueish depths. “Friends forever,” he thinks.

  
  
It's only when the bottle has sank below the water, did John realise that he never actually got to tell Sherlock how much he loved him.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorely tempted to write a alternate happy ending now.


End file.
